


A Single Dream

by splix



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities.<br/>---JRR Tolkien</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Single Dream

*

 

 

In the steady golden embrace of Rivendell, all was peace, all was tranquility, and so perhaps it was not unusual that a youth would become restless and strike out on his own, for middle-Earth is vast and deep and enticing to Men, and pathways that were once broad and flat had become thickets and forests and tangled places of mystery.

Thus it was that Estel, as fair as dawn and with the clearest of purpose in his eyes did take his first steps into a place near the Misty Mountains that has no fixed name, for it has long been accursed. But alas! He was an untrained soldier on the battlefield and had never doubted, never truly feared, had never been wounded, and he did not know that not all peril approaches at the end of a sword. 

In the midst of this place stood a hut, most ordinary, quiet in the dusk, a welcome refuge to a traveller suffering with fatigue. As he drew closer, a strange, sweet music sang in his blood and washed across his very heart, filling it with an unfamiliar beauty, and a fire, warm and soothing, did seem to blossom within the hut. A fragrance of wine and roasting meat drifted past, drawing him ever closer. To trade a meal and a bed for coin; what could be more natural? He placed his hand on the door.

_Come inside._

How weary Estel was, and how soft and deep and restful was that voice. He felt the glimmering weight of forces beyond his comprehension and desired to turn back, but a great languor overcame him, and he entered the hut.

_Who are you?_

He turned then to the figure standing in the corner of the hut and gazed wonderingly. A man; no more than a man, a little taller than he and not much older. His eyes were blue, pale as a winter sky.

The lifelong caution taught to him by Elrond seemed to dissolve in the brilliance of the fire, in the sight of a glorious supper laid before him, but something remained; he spoke in a hush. An ordinary man, to be sure. “Estel.”

_And do you hunger…Estel?_

In those words lay invitation, as the man gestured to the table with long, pale hands. But as the words burned themselves inside Estel’s heart, for the man’s carven lips did not move, he began to feel apprehension, and as the man drew closer, the first stirrings of a dreamlike and wondering terror. He could not move as white hands grasped his and pulled him close, nor utter protest as long fingers traced over the green gem of Barahir. 

_How beautiful this is, child._

It is not yours to touch, Estel longed to say, but the words would not come. 

_And how beautiful you are. Not with the cold beauty of jewels but with the warmth of life and youth. How firm your flesh, and soft your hair, and such promise in your eyes._

A hand cupped Estel’s chin and tilted it upward, and he met the man’s gaze. He attempted a curse but no sound emerged, and the man’s mouth closed on his with a most dreadful intimacy.

_Long have I waited for one worthy of me. Are you worthy, Estel?_

There was amusement in the voice that was like a blade now, cleaving his heart, and he felt stealthy tendrils of some gliding and evil darkness invading him, searching for truth. He fought, but it was as a child struggling against a dragon, and he was borne to the floor, and his garments drawn slowly from his body. The hands touched his hair, smoothing it back from his face, and they were warm, but their touch burned like ice, and his thrashing proved for naught. Soft lips trailed kisses down his naked limbs, and caressed his organ with wet heat as the voice burned in his mind.

_I see you…I see you for who you are, child._

A body writhed against his, naked as his own, warm and heavy as an ordinary man’s. He felt himself arching upward, craving, spreading himself wide, and as the man entered him, he looked up and with blinding terror saw eyes that glowed as a furnace, the pale skin now flashing with the brilliance of gold and jewels.

_Elessar. Aragorn._

He found his voice then, and screamed.

 

*

 

Milky sunlight filtered through drawn shutters and drew a bright veil over Estel’s eyes. He sat up with a cry, shielding himself, and heard his own voice echoing in the emptiness of the hut. Swiftly he leapt to his feet as if to defend against an enemy, but saw only grey boards furred with dust, a hearth long abandoned. He glanced down at himself; he was clothed, and too his sword and dagger were affixed to his side. Wonderingly, he lifted his hand, where the ring of Barahir still gleamed.

“A dream….” His senses reeled with the all too vivid memory, but he strode to the door and flung it open boldly. Dreams were only terrifying at night, in the moment. They held no sway in the light.

There, upon the ground, lay a jewel, palest blue, like a winter sky.

Wisely, Estel left it behind.

 

End.


End file.
